One or two paintings were leaning against the wall of the music room. Frau Mamma did not refer to them.
‘Have you been to the theatre? I understand there are some fine productions. And your next exhibition, Irene?’
‘Who is Herr Rippert?’ asked Thomas again.
‘Oh, an adviser.’ They waited. ‘Herr Rippert is an art valuer. He came to value our things. Nothing more than that.’
‘Why do you want your things valued?’
‘I just wanted to know. . . Now, tell me about Dodo.’
Irene looked at Thomas and Thomas looked at Irene. She spoke. ‘I have a suggestion. May I give you some English money, or lend it, if you prefer? It would be so easy for me to help you, the money I receive from England makes me rich in Germany.’
Frau Mamma looked at Herr Papa as though instructing him to speak. He seemed nervous, but determined.
‘It is very kind, we appreciate your offer, but we cannot take it.’
‘But Papa,’ said Thomas, ‘don’t you understand, it can be a loan. There is no point in your living so uncomfortably and worrying about money when your own children can rescue you.’
Herr Papa looked pleadingly at his wife.
‘We are most grateful, but we cannot accept,’ she said. ‘This is not because we don’t love you, or because we do not see the good sense of what you say—’
‘Then why? Why?’
Frau Mamma rubbed her face with her hand, and Herr Papa stared out of the window. In the end, she spoke.
‘Irene, we love you as our own daughter. But don’t you understand. . . this is English money. How can we accept it?’
They sat in silence and then rose to go. With an air of determination, Thomas opened the door of the Salon. The pictures had been taken off the walls, and pieces of Meissen stood here and there on tables. The Curtiuses looked embarrassed.
‘Herr Rippert. . . I did agree to sell him a few things. He offered so much money, it must be a good arrangement. Your dear father is so unwell, I cannot always be asking Max for medicine. He is taking the Liebermann, and the Thoma.’
‘The Liebermann, and the Thoma! Your favourites!’
‘Don’t be angry. I did not want to sell him anything, but Christian is very anxious, he insisted.’
‘Anything else?’
She cheered up a little, looked rather sly. ‘Well, yes, I sold him four pieces of Meissen. He has taken them away already, in return for billions and billions of marks, so much that even now I think the money must be worth something if we spend it fast. To tell you the truth, he chose not very good pieces – late nineteenth century. We were beginners when we bought them, we always kept them in the cupboard. I told him it was because they were so precious. Was that very dishonest of me?’ She laughed. ‘You see what I am driven to. Die hochgeborene Frau Gesandtschaftssekretär Curtius deceiving an antiques dealer. The worst thing about him was the way he swaggered around, picking things up and turning them upside down – I had to restrain Mathilde. But what are we to do? This inflation, this inflation, it never ends.’
Irene looked at the threadbare Salon and the winter garden filled with empty pots. ‘We have another suggestion. You could leave Berlin. You could live at Salitz, in our house. You would not have many expenses there, and Tante Sybille would look after you.’
‘I can’t expect my sister to take in two of us—’
‘You could live in our house. I think you would be happy there. Why live in Berlin, if you don’t have to?’
31
‘This is my last party in this apartment, dear children. Perhaps my last party ever. Don’t you think the table looks pretty? Tomorrow we will leave and everything that happened here will be only memories, but I wanted you all, especially my grandchildren, to remember me as a hospitable mother and grandmother.’
Frau Mamma had summoned the family the evening before she left for Salitz. For the first time in years, the stoves were lit throughout the apartment. Some of the guests had almost forgotten what it was like to be in a properly heated interior. Most of the rooms had been dismantled, but in the Salon, lit with candles, a semblance of domesticity survived. On the round table covered with a white tablecloth stood wine glasses and decanters, the Berlin bowls and plates, stuffed rolls and fruit, marzipan and sweets.
In the old days they’d all talked volubly. Now they could hardly speak. The grandchildren eyed the sweets in silence. Frau Mamma’s children stood in a semi-circle, uncertain what she might say.
She looked around the room and smiled. ‘You all look very solemn, my dears, but this is not a funeral, just a farewell. Whatever the threats outside, let us allow ourselves a few hours of family happiness. We should remember those who are no longer with us. Heinz. Freddy. Paul, in his way.’ Elise crossed herself but betrayed no emotion. She might be English, Irene thought irritably, the way she hides her feelings. ‘But let us be grateful that so many remain, that Thomas returned safely, that Irene is here, that there are so many young people in the family. These terrible times cannot last for ever – I know Germany is strong enough to rise again. I am confident that Thomas will build his housing schemes, that Irene will become the finest painter of her generation, that Max will become a professor, that Puppi will be the principal of a Gymnasium, that Elise will find happiness again. As for the grandchildren, why, there is no saying what they will achieve, living as they will in a new Germany, strong not in its military power but in its prosperity, its creativity, its respect for justice. Dear children, let us drink a toast to Germany, to the old Germany we loved and the new Germany we look forward to.’ She looked around her. ‘But you have nothing to drink. Thomas, Max, some punch. . .’
They drank toasts, they emptied the plates, they talked loudly, they could almost imagine it was a party before the war. Before they left, Frau Mamma summoned them to the dining room, which was filled with packing cases.
‘We are not keeping very much, we are not sentimental. I’ve never believed one could take one’s possessions in a van to Heaven, still less the other place. Cases will be delivered to each of you tomorrow. Keep what you want, sell what you want. There will be some surprises, I hope nice ones.’ She looked rather impish. Taking Irene by the elbow, she pointed out several large cases. ‘Irene, I know which of my pictures you like best. Well, I am keeping the Liebermann for the moment, since you persuaded us not to sell it, but there are some other things for you. And, my dear child, you will find something you may not want, but it is suitable you should have it. That iron necklace. . . Here you will find the rest of the parure – tiara, bracelets, earrings, rings – all in their velvet boxes. I cannot enjoin you to wear them, but at least I can say, you must promise never to dispose of them. Keep them one day for Dodo, to remind her of her Prussian grandmother.’
And she made a noise, a sort of snort, almost mocking. Though Frau Mamma had never spoken about her daughter-in-law’s long stay in London, Irene realised that she had understood – intuitively, Thomas would never have revealed anything – how nearly Irene had never come back.
32
‘I think I like the Krumme Lanke best. Or the Schlachtensee? I don’t know.’
‘Where I am, that is best. No?’
‘Yes. Where you are is always best, Karlchen. Take your hand off my stomach, will you? Someone might see us.’
‘Many people have already seen us – really, it does not matter. There is nobody here from the embassy, they do not spend their weekends sunbathing at Krumme Lanke.’
They were lying on the rough grass just beside the lake, a little distance from the main paths. Mark felt more comfortable there. At the weekend they would join crowds of Berliners, families, hikers, male couples, female couples, scantily dressed or naked, swimming, eating and drinking, lying on the grass. They would find somewhere quiet, Karl in the sun, Mark in the shade, and they would swim through the caressing water to the lake’s quiet centre, where Karl would disappear at a rapid crawl and wave before speeding back to dive betw
een Mark’s legs. They felt at one with nature, floating side by side. Karl might persuade Mark to take off his clothes, and he’d lie naked, lulled by the warmth and the firm sunny flesh of his friend. He’d ask himself, Am I happy, now, at this moment? Is this happiness, or merely self-indulgence?
‘Mark.’ Karl sounded nervous, this was unusual. ‘Mark, I want to tell you something.’
‘Something bad?’
‘No, good. At least, I think so. I have a friend who is the editor of a big journal here in Berlin.’
‘You have so many friends, Karl.’
‘You have right, I mean you are right. He says he is looking for someone to write a weekly column, on politics, the arts. Someone who has a new perspective, someone perhaps who is not native to this country but knows it well. After all, you are here how long? Three years, isn’t it, and you know me for two years? Two happy years, no? Even though you are still so embarrassed about me and will not introduce me to your sister.’ Mark wished Karl would not go on stroking his stomach.
‘That sounds very nice.’
‘Of course I thought of you.’
‘Of me?’
‘Yes, you. You write very good, you have many connections, you are interested in politics and the arts, your German is ausgezeichnet and anyway I could always check your pieces to make sure the German is correct. It would be companionable, I would enjoy that.’
‘But I couldn’t do that, I wouldn’t be allowed to.’
‘It could be anonymous.’
‘But I don’t have time, Karlchen, I have to work very hard.’
‘Yes, in your present position you do. But you don’t have to stay in your present position, do you? You could do something different, become a professional writer. I think you would be happier if you were free. Then you would not always be worrying about being seen by someone from the embassy when you’re with me. That is so annoying. For me, and also for you.’
Mark rolled over on the grass. ‘God, it’s hot,’ he said. ‘How long are we staying here?’
‘Hah.’ Angry silence. ‘So shall I say no to my friend? It’s a pity. He has a lot of money, and he is offering a good salary. You could also write books, and we could live together. Wouldn’t you like that?’
‘I must have another swim.’ What he did not tell Karl was that a few days before he had received a letter from the editor of a London newspaper, offering him the position of foreign correspondent covering Germany and central Europe. It had been a flattering letter – ‘the perfect person, offering all the qualities we need, an ability to write, a profound knowledge of the region, highly developed linguistic skills’. A salary had been mentioned, higher than his diplomatic salary.
‘Well,’ Karl continued, ‘I think you are making a failure, I mean a mistake. You are obsessed by being a diplomat, but what is the point when you can do so many other things? Anyone can be a diplomat if they have good manners, but no one else can write your books.’
Mark leant over and tousled Karl’s hair. Karl pushed his hand away, annoyed.
‘So I say to him, no, my friend is not interested. Is that what I say?’
Mark lay in the sun, and did not reply. He liked Karl when he was annoyed, he looked aggressive, it was most attractive. He looked sideways at Karl, who indeed wore his most truculent air, flushed, manly. He pulled Karl’s hair, Karl slapped away his hand.
Mark thought, And if I did leave the Service, where, after all, the work is not always interesting, would that be the end of the world? Must I be a diplomat? Could I really become a journalist and writer? And how odd to have two offers at the same time. I must consider. . . And I seem to be in love. It’s hard to believe. I could live with Karl, well now. . .
‘I’d be happy to talk to your friend. But everything must be anonymous, you understand.’
‘You will? Dear Mark, you will? Ah, now you have made me so happy.’ Karl leant over and kissed Mark on the lips. Mark remonstrated, feebly.
And meanwhile he calculated that with the salary mentioned by the editor in England, and the possible salary in Berlin, he would be paid more than twice what he earned at present.
33
Dorothea does not often mention her father. But one afternoon, seeing a photograph of him wearing a short-sleeved pullover and smiling at the camera, she laughs and says, ‘I used to make fun of my father when I was a little girl. He was so serious, he would gaze into the distance and wave his arms around and explain his schemes. I would build my cities out of bricks and explain that this was a workers’ city where the people – the people were my dolls, lined up to listen – would learn to lead a healthy life. I would lecture them: “No more beds, good dolls sleep on the floor, good dolls say no to cake, they like to eat brown rice, Herr Thomas says so.” Father would laugh and laugh. “Ah, she is so naughty,” he’d say. “I would never dare to make fun of my father like this.” He’d say, “Will you be a great architect, my darling?” and I would answer, “Yes, Vati, or perhaps I will be a great artist like Mutti.”’
‘It sounds very happy.’
‘And so it was. And it was particularly nice when Mark came to supper, as he often did. They would talk about all sorts of things, very freely, and Mark would relax. Living with them was more fun, I suppose, than living with your dull old parents was for you. Poor darling Vati, so many mistakes. . .’
And for a while she does not speak about him again.
34
Irene hugely enjoyed her exhibition opening. She had been working on her paintings until two days before, because Herr Goldstein had asked for forty pictures, and forty pictures there were, along with watercolours and prints (they held their value against inflation, he told her). The gallery, as redesigned by Thomas, suited her work: white walls, a wooden floor, fittings that might have been industrial but had been expensively designed. Herr Goldstein fed her delicious things to eat and drink during the installation, said the work was of exceptional quality and he was confident of selling well. ‘Of course sales do not prove quality, but in your case, dear lady, the work’s spirituality is combined with extreme visual attractiveness. Your landscapes are so full of meaning – they express spring, and youth, and hope, all the things we need.’ Herr Goldstein said that since making money in modern Germany was a bubble in which all profits would vanish, one might at least enjoy the process. He wanted to help artists and to earn enough to dine out every evening.
The opening was due to begin at six but at half past five people were arriving. They drank oceans of beer and wine, ate mountains of pretzels (some of them not normally having much to eat), talked and flirted, and above all studied the works of art. Once the first red dot had gone up, more and more followed. Dodo busily told people they must buy a picture. The British ambassador and ambassadress arrived, expressed their admiration. Their friends came in crowds and two architects offered her the chance to collaborate on a public commission. Mark’s German and Russian friends appeared, a varied crowd, standing shyly in a group at first but not for long. Alexander brought several art critics.
Irene wore a floating white dress. Around her neck hung her iron necklace, white roses wound through the metal. People noticed the necklace. Some considered it without speaking, some loudly admired it.
Puppi said, ‘From the jewellery of old Prussia you make a pretty ornament.’
Irene was not sure that Puppi approved, and asked her, ‘Do you think Schinkel would have liked to see the necklace interwoven with flowers?’
Puppi did not reply.
By seven more than half the paintings had been sold. By eight all had gone, as well as dozens of prints. Irene became more and more excited. At nine the gallery was still full. At ten Herr Goldstein remarked to Irene, ‘Well, everything is sold now, even the prints, shall we go and have dinner?’
They had booked a whole restaurant. It cost Irene, paying in sterling, almost nothing. She enjoyed the dinner, sitting between her husband and her daughter, who refused to go home to bed. ‘I have sold so many
pictures for you, Mamma, I deserve a little reward,’ she’d proclaimed. They danced to a Negro band.
While she was dancing, Irene loosened her blouse to reveal the full extent of the iron necklace, black against the whiteness of her skin. Alexander clapped his hands, gazed at her and when they danced caressed the necklace as though fascinated. He asked her to dance again and again, and she did not refuse, laughing, surprised. At one point, seeing Thomas standing nearby, a little morose, she stretched out her hand as though the three of them might dance together, but he stepped back, his face cold.
By four the crowd was thinning. People were lying in abandoned pairs on banquettes. The band still played, but raggedly, as though entertaining themselves. Irene had woven more flowers around her necklace so you could hardly see the iron. She’d danced with Herr Goldstein and with innumerable artist friends and with the critic of an important newspaper and several times with Alexander. But she’d not danced with Thomas for hours, she realised, nor even seen him since the moment when she’d wanted him to dance with her and Alexander. Where was he, she wondered. Normally he was punctilious about waiting for her. Could he have gone home?
She shook her head, mildly agitated. She kissed Herr Goldstein, who had become rather amorous, and Alexander, who in a blurry voice asked her to stay, and ran into the street.
35
When she opened the door of the apartment, she found Thomas’s coat lying on a chair in the hall, his hat on the floor. That was not like him.
He must be in bed. It was five o’clock. He’d never left a party without her before. But it was very late. She’d been thoughtless, she supposed.
She went into the Berliner Zimmer. She did not turn on the light, she wanted to make as little disturbance as possible. She was not sure how steady she was on her feet. She moved stealthily across the room.
‘You’re back.’
She could not see him. From the sound of his voice, he was seated.
The Iron Necklace Page 29
